


Trouble Is... I thru III, The

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-07-31
Updated: 1998-07-31
Packaged: 2018-11-20 13:06:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11336142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Mulder, Skinner, and Scully, angst and longing, but no sex.





	Trouble Is... I thru III, The

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

The Trouble Is I by Merri-Todd Webster

26 Jan 1998  
O kind X-phile archivist, I humbly submit this for the archive. It involves Mulder, Scully, and Skinner, angst and longing but no sex, and is my first attempt at such. Many thanks.  
DISCLAIMER: Not to me but to Chris Carter belongs the glory of having invented these characters and then cast them with such winsome actors. I make no money off this little exercise; I'm just keeping the voices in my head happy.

* * *

******************************************  
The Trouble Is I  
by Merri-Todd Webster  
******************************************

The trouble is I don't know which of them I want more.

Her subtle strength, or his obvious ability to command. Her sharp, clean mind, or his intensely focused will. Her soft red mouth, full and yielding under mine, her perfect small breasts pressed against my chest, or his hard thin mouth making *me* yield, his muscular arms molding me against *his* chest.

The trouble is, I have to work with both of them. I see them every day, with time out for weekends and the odd stint in the hospital. We've all been through so much together--some of it I don't even want to remember. The three of us have gone farther into the darkness than anybody else I know. And the two of them have gone farther into the darkness in me than even I have--the darkness of the hole that was left when they took Sam away.

Samantha.

Sometimes I wonder, am I just looking to her for the sister who was taken away? Do I just want him to replace the father who was killed? Then I think of how I would feel if I saw desire in her eyes, or in his, and I know it's not that, it's sex, it's lust, the desire to be possessed....

Either one of them is strong enough to possess me, the way I want to be possessed. Either one of them is strong enough to take me and make me forget... everything. And neither one of them will ever do that to me, unless I ask for it.

I'm not strong enough even to ask. I know that. But the truth is, it's really the only thing I'm able to want.

*********

The trouble is I don't know which of them I want more.

One so wounded, so fragile, so much needing to be taken care of. The other so strong, even stronger than I am, strong enough to take care of me when I need it. One so beautifully sensitive, wearing his vulnerability with his suit; the other beautiful as a diamond is beautiful, hard and cold, but precious.

When I'm alone, when I have moments to myself, I fantasize about both of them. Both at once, in every way you can imagine, and maybe a few you can't. Not what you'd expect from a good Catholic girl, but then I'm not a girl any more, and not a very good Catholic--a skeptic, a devil's advocate in the court of belief.

Which do I want more: to hold or to be held? To take charge or to give up control? To live by faith or by the facts? The truth, if there is one, is that I want both, *need* both, and I don't know how to ask for it, because I need it from both of them.

*********

The trouble is I don't know which of them I want more.

It's hell seeing them both in my office every day, so perfect side by side, looking innocent, as if they don't know what they're doing to me. Him tall and intolerably elegant in the regulation suit, a real clothes horse, a fashion model who just happens to carry a gun. And her all energy compacted into that tiny, modestly clad body, a red-haired, blue-eyed flame, a killer who just happens to dress like a model.

You know, I've always been a conservative man. It's been good for my career. I've passed the right tests, played the right games; I risked my life for my country when people back home wanted to spit on me for doing it. I've earned the authority I carry. And it means nothing because I can't use it to get what I want. I just go home feeling like my mind's a blank screen, running endless porno movies of myself with the two of them.

It just isn't fair.

He knows I risked my job and even my life in the hope of saving her life. He would have done the same thing. He doesn't know how much I did it for him, too, because losing her would have killed him.

Losing both of them would kill me.

It just isn't fair. But the truth is, I never expected it to be.

*********  
end

 

* * *

 

28 Jan 1998  
DISCLAIMER: Chris Carter created them, 1013 owns them, and it's not my fault they insist on talking in my head.

* * *

***********************  
The Trouble Is II: I Know What You're Thinking  
by Merri-Todd Webster  
************************

I know what you're thinking, Mulder.

When you look at me with that considering expression, and you want me to believe you're pondering the case we're working on, I know what you're really thinking.

You're wondering what color underwear I have on.

There's a certain look a man gets when he's wondering about the next layer down, what's under the suit, the skirt, the cocktail dress. Most men don't hide it very well. You do a better job than most, but you can't hide it entirely.

I always know what you're thinking, Mulder, even if I don't believe it or understand it. For one thing, your eyes give you away. Hazel eyes are very revealing, you know. Yours turn pale gold when you're frightened, deep gold when you're angry, green when you're excited by something, and really intensely green when you're aroused. I know every gradation of color in your eyes, every gradation of emotion they reveal; I've been watching it happen for five years. You have no idea how often your eyes are moss green, agate green, jade green when they look at me.

Believe me, Mulder, I know how you feel about me. I know you want to hold me and protect me and believe that you can't, you can't take care of the people you love. I know you want me on my back underneath you, you want to make me feel small because I'm so much stronger than you, you want to fuck me so hard you almost hurt me and hear me beg you for more. And I know you want me to take you, take care of everything, ride your cock until we both come and you won't mind if I tie you to the headboard, too, just for the hell of it.

I even know you look at him the same way, feel many of the same things for him that you do for me, and some things that you don't, can't. That's all right. Believe me, Mulder, I know what you're thinking.

If you only knew what I've been thinking....

*********

I know what you're thinking, Scully.

The wheels are always turning in that pretty little head of yours. They never stop. That's what makes you so dangerous. And so fascinating. I bet even when you're in bed with a man, even with a man inside you, those wheels keep on turning. It's how you protect yourself.

The mind is a hard thing to control. It has a tendency to zig when you want it to zag. You might be thinking about exposing Cancerman while you're getting laid, but sometimes, you're thinking about getting laid while we're talking about our latest case. Sometimes your cheeks flush when you're cutting up some cadaver, and I know your mind's a million miles away, right then, you're having a great mental orgasm. And then you look at the body again, and those eyes focus in like lasers, everything else but the present forgotten. Including me.

The way you look at me, Scully. It's not the red hair, or the color of your eyes, not those scrumptious breasts always scrupulously hidden under the modest blouse or the hips that swing just a little bit under the long agent's coat. It's the way you *look* at me, Scully. That's what drives me crazy about you. I can tell when you're thinking I'm off my rocker, spouting some far-out theory, "Spooky" Mulder at his finest. I can tell when you're thinking I'm a self-destructive fool and you want to lock me up for my own good. And I can tell when you're thinking I look really good in my suit and wouldn't I look even better out of it, framed by your white thighs.

Believe me, Scully, I know what you're thinking. If you only knew what I've been thinking....

*********

I know what you're thinking. Both of you.

There you stand on the other side of my desk, looking down at me while I'm sitting going over some shitty pile of paperwork that all amounts to, "We're tired of funding your crackpot division," and you're both thinking, "Here we go again, partner. Old man Skinner's gonna take out his frustrations on us again."

If only. You two don't know what frustration is.

Yeah, I see you giving each other those smoldering glances, those tender looks of concern behind the other's back, those expressionless expressions that say, "Skinner's gonna kill us for this one." I know exactly how you feel about each other.

Well, guess what. You have *no* idea what I think or how I feel.

I'd like to see the look on your face, Scully, if you knew I'd like to lift that tight little cream-colored skirt and rip those expensive stockings right off you so I could get to your crotch and see if you really are a redhead. If you knew I'd happily let you sit on my face for two or three hours and lick you till you thought you couldn't come any more. And then I'd get my cock into you and prove you wrong.

And you, Mulder, you'd probably run away screaming if you knew I'd like to do much the same thing to you. Peel away the Italian suit and see if you look as good naked as you do with clothes. Peel away the special agent veneer and touch the lonely, frightened man underneath. Make you come under my hands, and then fill that exquisite mouth with my cock. I don't think a man could look at you and not think about those lips of yours wrapped around his dick. I know I can't. And after that--well, I don't think you want to know.

Not yet.

The truth is out there, you like to say. There's another truth, right here, right under your noses, and you can't even see it. You two have no idea what I'm thinking.

*********

end

 

* * *

 

2 Feb 1998  
DISCLAIMER: "I made this!" says Chris Carter of these characters, history, universe. "I made this!" I say of this particular arrangement of words about Mr. Carter's property.

* * *

*********************  
The Trouble Is III: So Beautiful  
by Merri-Todd Webster  
*********************

They'd be so beautiful together.

I admit that "beautiful" isn't a word often applied to men, but it comes easily to mind when describing Fox Mulder. Nobody's going to argue with me about that. Yet after several years of working under his supervision, I have to say that Walter Skinner is beautiful, too. He'd probably laugh at me for saying this, but not only does he have a great body, he has a beautiful soul behind that dour exterior. Trust a Catholic girl on this one.

They're in Skinner's office right now, talking about something. Skinner is sitting behind the desk; the harsh light of the lamp gleams on the crown of his bowed head and glints off his glasses. As usual, his jacket is somewhere else, his white shirtsleeves rolled up, and God, even his forearms are magnificent.

Mulder is leaning over the desk, his face close to Skinner's. His palms are flat on the desk, supporting his weight, and his tie swings freely between his straight arms. He's turned almost three quarters away from me, so I can't really see his face, but I can see his ass quite nicely, thank you. Mulder is a fidget, can't stand still sometimes, and when he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his ass glides beautifully against the fabric of his pants.

I have to bite my lip to keep from shuddering, from making some revealing noise, because all I can think about is what might happen next if I weren't out here, in plain sight. It's so easy to imagine Skinner looking up, his face tight as usual, looking up at Mulder's teasing expression and not being able to stand it any more. His hand comes up and grasps Mulder's tie--a bright floral one I gave him--and drags him down against Skinner's mouth.

It's a hard kiss, exasperated and greedy at the same time. I know Skinner just has to nip that irresistible lower lip and suck it into his mouth. That's what I've been dying to do since the moment I first laid eyes on Mulder. The kiss doesn't last long, though. When Skinner takes his mouth away, Mulder just sags. He doesn't keel over or anything; he just looks like Skinner's hand, which is now on his chest, is the only thing holding him up.

Skinner pushes back his chair and gets up. In the dim light, he seems to tower over Mulder. The next kiss is slow and thorough, Skinner's hand snaking around to the back of Mulder's neck, his fingers splaying into the soft brown hair. I know how soft that hair is; "silky" is cliche, doesn't even begin to describe it. It's more like feathers, the fragile crest of some exotic bird.

Mulder's hands rise, drift through the air, move toward the AD's shoulders, but drop and settle on the older man's waist. Now Skinner pulls Mulder against him, arms around his back, and starts kissing his cheek, his ear, the side of his neck. The way Mulder throws his head back, I know it feels good, wonderful, fantastic. Skinner bends lower, moves to the other side of Mulder's neck, and I can see that slender throat exposed, the adam's apple showing, so gorgeous I want to sink my teeth into it. I see Mulder shudder and guess that Skinner has just done exactly that.

Skinner's hands run up and down Mulder's back, then suddenly grasp his lapels and peel back the suit jacket. Mulder looks startled but frozen, like a rabbit caught in oncoming headlights. He leans against the desk as the AD deftly unknots his tie and flicks open the buttons of the silvery grey shirt. Skinner's quick with his hands. They run in large circles over Mulder's flat chest, stirring up the fine dark hairs, brushing over the brown nipples. Mulder arches like a cat to that touch, and pretty soon Skinner's fingers are concentrating on those nipples. It's obvious Mulder likes it; his eyes are closed, his mouth open, lips wet.

So smoothly that I can't really track it, Skinner lowers the younger man to the desk. Mulder still has his shirt on, but the tie has slipped off, and more is soon to come. Head slightly raised, Mulder watches raptly as his boss unbuckles his belt. He raises his hips to let Skinner pull the trousers down his legs; they come off with a final jerk that takes Mulder's shoes as well. Mulder's wearing his usual boxers, but even in those loose shorts, his erection is obvious. Is Skinner going to take those off, too? Well, not yet. Instead he bends over Mulder, standing between his legs, and starts kissing him again. I see what he's doing: He starts at Mulder's mouth, travels over cheek, jaw, ear, throat, nips his shoulders--I wish I could hear them, too--stops for a long time at Mulder's nipples. But they aren't his ultimate destination. Skinner drags his mouth down the thin line of hair that runs from Mulder's chest right down to his pubic hair, and when he gets to the waistband of the boxers, then they come off.

Men always look so sexy wearing nothing but a dress shirt. Mulder is irresistible; what's Skinner going to do? One large hand closes around Mulder's erection. Mulder arches into that touch so fiercely his back turns into a bow. Long minutes pass as Skinner slowly, carefully, skillfully, patiently strokes Mulder to climax, all the while watching the younger man's face with that intent, focused gaze that misses nothing, remembers and catalogues everything. Mulder in climax is even more beautiful than I'd imagined, his face transfigured, and I can hear him, now, crying out hoarsely as his come jets all over his boss's hand, his belly, even onto the desk. Unbelievably beautiful.

A few minutes pass. Skinner stays with his hand on Mulder's belly, and Mulder's hands come to rest over the older man's. When Mulder starts to get up, Skinner's hands go to his own belt. Mulder turns away from me as Skinner says something I can't make out. I see hesitation in his shoulders, and then, oh god, he drops to his knees in front of Skinner.

Skinner undresses just enough to expose his cock for Mulder's mouth. He's big, not overly long but really thick, with a wide, blunt head. I can only imagine what it looks like--Mulder's luscious lips wrapped around that thick organ, sucking it in. There's so much heat between my legs, I think my hose are going to catch fire. The expression on Skinner's face is fascinating; the hard set of his features gradually softens, very gradually; he bows his head and his hands come to rest on Mulder's shoulders. Skinner says something, and Mulder starts bobbing his head. Oh god, it's all I can do not to touch myself, bring myself off with them. Mulder's back is arched, I think he's getting off as much as Skinner, and then Skinner wrenches his head to one side and thrusts, once, into Mulder's mouth.

They freeze like that for a few seconds. Then both men relax, separate. Skinner tucks himself into his pants and helps Mulder to his feet. Skinner has come more recently, but Mulder's the one who's swaying. He gets dressed, quickly, and then turns to leave the office--and he sees me. He sees that I've been watching them, and I see the shine of moisture on his mouth. He licks his lips.

The door opens and Mulder comes out, cocking his head and smiling at the dazed expression on my face. I have a hard time remembering that all I've seen is a fantasy, a movie in my own head.

"Penny for your thoughts, Scully?"

*********

They'd be so beautiful together.

I have to say, honestly, she's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. Perfect. Nobody can touch her. She's so beautiful she scares me. And him, he's exactly the kind of man that's always turned my head. Different from me. Tough, a bit of a jock, well-built, but smart, too. They're both incredibly smart. Stupid doesn't do anything for me.

Unless it's sex actors on video.

I've been lying here on the couch, wasting my time. I don't think it would matter if I watched every damned porn flick there is. I look at the screen and all I see are Scully and Skinner.

Maybe in a nice hotel room somewhere, where no one would know they're federal agents breaking the rules of fraternization. A nice hotel room with Monet prints on the walls and striped fabric, not just wallpaper, where they could rip each other's clothes off and fuck each other senseless.

Her hands are all over him, just as fast and just as sure as his hands on her. Caressing and stripping each other at the same time, breaking each other out of the FBI uniform. And kissing. Her lush red mouth open against his, his hands on her ass getting up underneath the skirt and yanking down hose and panty. Ripping the nylon and throwing it aside. And she's not complaining, she's popping buttons off his crisp white shirt in her eagerness to get it off of him.

He picks her up and deposits her on the bed, effortlessly. She weighs nothing in his arms. Scully lies still, head raised, propped on her elbows, watching Skinner remove the last of her clothes. When she's naked, white against the dark green covers, he drops his pants and sheds his briefs. God, he's big. Big all over, broad shoulders, long legs, solid, and hung to match. The look on her face says she's going to have every inch of that cock inside her, for as long as possible.

Skinner joins her on the bed, and her body almost disappears under his. They're kissing and touching again, hands roving over naked skin. His thigh is so dark against her fairness. She throws her head back, moaning, when he splays his hand over her swollen breast. Face buried in her throat, he takes his time, kneading, tracing, teasing, finally getting that rosy nipple between thumb and finger and rolling it mercilessly. Scully is crying out, little desperate mewing sounds that get higher when he fastens his mouth to her other breast. She's underneath him and all I can see is her face, half-covered by the flaming hair, and her legs thrashing. There's no mistaking the look on her face, the piercing cry that comes with it, the thing that looks like agony but isn't. She's had an orgasm just from his attention to her breasts.

Laughing softly, pleased with himself and with her, Skinner kisses his way down her body. Scully falls back and spreads her legs for him eagerly, one hand on his head as it settles between her thighs. The hair at her crotch is every bit as flame-red as what's on her head; I'd be willing to bet even the hair she shaves away is red, at least red-gold. Her mouth forms a perfect "o" as the pleasure takes hold of her; the intense blue eyes slide shut, and her head rolls back and forth on her neck as loosely as a marionette's. His head bobs a little as he works on her with his mouth; he seems to be taking his time with this, not rushing. Those wide, strong hands on her hips don't stop her from pushing against his face. The smell of her rises like the smell of yeast, or burning wax, or a flower. Choked noises come out of her mouth and then one word, repeated in a voice barely her own: "Yes! *Yes*! YES!"

Skinner backs off when Scully goes limp under his mouth. He waits until her panting has subsided a little, then presses his mouth to hers. Oh, she likes that. Her tongue darts out to lick her own flavor off his face. Then she sits up, turns, and takes hold of his thick cock. Her hand looks so small, so delicate, but his face tightens with what she's doing to him. He doesn't let her keep doing it for long; he takes her hand away, laughing shakily, and at once she rolls onto her hands and knees, presenting her ass to him. Oh god, she's so beautiful. I don't know how he keeps from just shoving it into her, pushing her down on the bed and smothering her with his need. But he cups her mound in his hand, slipping his thumb into the wet opening, so wet it glistens. She moans as he opens her with his fingers, making way for the size of him. "Please...."

Even now, he goes into her slowly. The thickness of him stretches her wider, but her face is ecstatic, like the face of a saint seeing God. The whole length of him slides into her delicate body, I don't know how, and he pauses a moment, hands on the curve of her bottom. She shifts against him, and maybe that triggers what happens, the way he starts ramming against her, into her. You'd think it must hurt, but she urges him on, broken cries of his name and yes and please and oh god. He's really fucking her, not holding anything back, and then he arches back, imbedded in her to the hilt, and groans like a dying man, while she literally screams, mouth open wide and tongue extended, and then they fall forward together.

After a moment he rolls her over, cradling her against him, hands cupping those perfect breasts again. The smile on her face is the catlike smile of a thoroughly sated woman. She runs her fingers along his thigh, his arm. He kisses her throat. His eyelids drop like he's about to fall asleep, but she's probably already thinking about the next time.

Maybe I'll run the redheads tape again.

*********

They'd be so beautiful together.

There's a sort of inevitability about it. I wonder if they know, if they're having the relationship half the bureau thinks they are, if they know what they look like together. Christ, she was dying, and all she could think about was whether he would eat and sleep without her nagging him. And if she had died, I know he would have eaten his gun.

Every time they leave the office, I wonder if they're going to make love some time that day. I stare at the paperwork on my desk and wonder if they make time for one another in between checking out corpses and testing Mulder's spooky theories. I wonder if a casual pizza and beer on the weekend turns into hours spent in bed, luxuriating in one another. I wonder if he calls her "Dana" when he's inside her.

Her apartment is as compulsively neat as his is compulsively messy. Probably they go to her apartment; he keeps some clothes there, she picks up after him. She throws the pizza boxes away instead of letting them pile up. For her, pizza is a treat, not a basic food group. She'll clean up the mess before they wander into the bedroom. Maybe he comes up behind her while she's wiping off the table, takes her waist in his hands, starts kissing her neck. She smiles and wiggles a little bit in his grasp, but she finishes what she's doing. Only after the sponge has been rinsed out and returned to its place on the sink does she turn and put her arms around his neck, raising her mouth for the kiss he's been wanting to give her. He doesn't let go of her mouth while he steers them both into the bedroom.

She undresses for him. Not provocatively; she doesn't have to try. Just to see Dana Scully taking her clothes off, her eyes never leaving yours as she makes herself ready to be vulnerable to you--that would be more than enough of a turn-on without her doing a fancy striptease. He sinks to his knees in front of her, still clothed, and bows his head against her stomach, hands on her back. She's almost too beautiful to be real, and the way he touches her shows that he realizes what a privilege it is to be allowed to touch her, to give her pleasure.

He nuzzles the fiery patch of hair between her thighs until she giggles like a little girl, twists away from him, and gets on the bed. She sits there watching him undress. She's seen him naked plenty of times, too many times--hurt, wounded, in shock. It's a turn-on to see him come to her strong and healthy, maybe erect already. He's long and slim and elegant all over, right down to his cock. He gets on the bed, and their bodies twine together like vines, leaning back on the pillows, kissing and caressing. He grasps her buttocks, and she gives a sinuous wriggle, presses closer to him, her hands moving like butterflies over his hair, his back, down between them.

Mulder groans, pushes her gently back onto the bed. He settles half beside her, half on top of her, finding her mouth again as though incurably thirsty for it. Her eyes are closed, her face serene with bliss as that luscious mouth of his wanders down her body, worshiping it. Covering her breasts with kisses, nibbling, licking, suckling, worshiping every inch. Trailing down her softly curved stomach and over the perfectly shaped thighs, now one, now the other. She is sighing, deep, contented sighs that deepen gradually into moans as he coaxes her thighs apart with kisses.

He draws back to look at her for a moment: Dana Scully, relaxed in pleasure, legs spread, her sex open like a hothouse flower. The pressure of his cock against the bedspread is sweet torture when he sees her like this, wanting everything he can give. He starts tasting her very gently, nuzzling her fur, brushing his lips to hers. Her moans deepen still more when he opens her with his tongue, and she rolls her hips up so he can delve into her, drink from her, reach every fold. He spends a long, long time eating her pussy, making her come over and over. With each orgasm, her voice rises out of a throaty moan and climbs like a siren to an impossibly high note, then relaxes back again. He keeps at her until a faint look of disbelief crosses her face, as if she hadn't thought it possible to know this much ecstasy.

Her back arches wildly when long fingers slip inside her, opening her still more, and she screams yet again when he keeps the fingers there and adds his mouth, sucking on her. Her fingers clench in his hair and she thrust against him, completely out of control. She is still crying out her climax when he drags himself back up her body and slides his cock in, all the way home in one smooth motion. She's shaking now, completely undone with pleasure. She shakes even harder as he moves inside her, slowly at first, trying to prolong it as far as possible. But how can he hold out any longer after what he's done to her? He must need her even more than she needs him, and it isn't long before he's driving hard into her body, too far gone to think about hurting her, and all she wants now is to come with him, just one more time.

They both throw back their heads, cry out, everything in the universe waits for them as they climax together, trembling, vulnerable, triumphant. Silence. For a long time, they don't move. Can't. But as soon as she stirs beneath him, he rolls away, pulling her on top of him. They're both smiling, sweet, dreamy smiles. She gropes for the covers; he pulls them up over both of them. Drowsy conversation drifts quiet as they fall asleep in one another's arms.

I know she'd take him into her bed, into her heart. Why do I have to be the only one who sleeps alone?

*********  
end


End file.
